I nodded, intrigued and terrified. “Is that what you saw yesterday, when you looked at the moles near my ear? You saw something that frightened you.”
He frowned, trying to remember, then broke into an amused smile. “I wasn’t frightened. I was…impressed.”
“Impressed?”
“By the king,” he said. “The one you are to marry.”
I gaped, dumbstruck.
“I do not know how far we can rely on Madonna Clarice,” he continued. “A betrayal is coming, one that threatens your life, but I am not sure whence it arises. I have been honest with your aunt about your singular importance, and I have given her talismans of protection for you and your cousins. But I did not know whether I could trust her to give you this.”
His fingers dug into the pouch on his belt and found a small item; he opened them to reveal a polished black stone accompanied by a bit of greenery.
“This is the Wing of Corvus Rising, from Agrippa, created under the aegis of Mars and Saturn. It holds the power of the raven’s star. Its wing will shelter you from harm until we meet again. Wear it hidden, with the stone on top and the comfrey touching your skin. Make absolutely certain that no one sees it or takes it from you.”
“I’ll make certain,” I said. “I’m not stupid.”
“I can see that,” he answered, with a glimmer of humor. He held out his hand, and I took the dark gift. I had expected the gem’s touch to be cold, but his flesh had warmed it.
“Why do you do this for me?” I asked.
Something sly flashed in his smile. “We are tied, Caterina Maria Romula de’ Medici. You appeared in my stars long before you were born. It serves my interests to keep you safe, if I can.” He paused. “Let me see you hide the talisman on your person.”
I insinuated my fingers beneath my tightly laced bodice and placed the gem between my undeveloped breasts. The bit of crushed comfrey took some maneuvering before it rested properly under the stone.
“Good,” Ser Cosimo said. “Now I must take my leave.” But as he turned to go, a thought occurred to him, and he asked quickly, “Do you dream, Caterina? Memorable dreams, remarkable ones?”
“I try not to remember them,” I said. “They frighten me.”
“You will recall them clearly now, under Corvus’s wing,” he said. “Mars dwells in your Twelfth House, the House of Hidden Enemies and Dreams. Heaven itself reveals what you must know of your fate. It is your gift and your burden.” He executed a shallow bow. “I take my leave of you for a time, Donna Caterina. May God permit us to meet again soon.”
He did not intend for his voice to betray any doubt regarding that future meeting—but it did, and I heard that doubt all too well. I turned away without answer and ran back across the courtyard, the raven’s stone hard against my chest.
I ran to the library and threw open the shutters to let in the sun and any sounds from the street or the stables near the gate. Then I found De Vita Coelitus Comparanda, written in the author’s script on yellowing parchment. Piero had left it on the bottom shelf so he could easily retrieve it, which allowed me to slide it off and guide it clumsily down to the floor.
I sat cross-legged, pulled the volume onto my lap, and opened it. I was far too agitated to read, but pressed my palms against the cool pages and stared at the words. I calmed myself by lifting a page, turning it, and smoothing it down with my hand. I turned another page, and another, until my breathing slowed, until my eyes relaxed and began to recognize a word here, a phrase there.
I had finally settled down enough to read when my eyes caught a flash of movement. Piero stood in the doorway, his cheeks flushed, his chest heaving. His face betrayed such misery and guilt I could not bear to look at him but lowered my gaze back to the book in my lap.
“I told them I couldn’t leave you,” he said. “If you can’t go, then I won’t.”
“It doesn’t matter what we want,” I said flatly. If I was in grave danger, then Piero was better off abandoning my company; the kindest thing I could do for him now was to be cruel. “I’m an heir and must remain. You’re not, so you must respect your mother’s bargain and leave.”
“They want Ippolito and Sandro, not you,” he persisted. “I’ll talk to Mother. They’ll see reason….”
I ran my finger down a page and said coldly, “It’s already decided, Piero. There’s no point in talking about it.”
“Cat,” he said, with such anguish that my resolve wavered—but I kept my gaze fixed on the page.
He stood in the doorway a bit longer, but I would not look up, not until the sound of his footsteps had faded.
I sat alone in the library until the sun passed midheaven and did not stir until a sound drew me to the window.
The coach bearing Piero, his brothers, and Uncle Filippo had rolled up to the gate and paused there while our soldiers moved aside to let the gate swing inward. As they did, two men walked through the opening onto our estate. Both were of noble birth; one wore a self-important air and an embroidered blue tunic. The other was dark and muscular, with a military commander’s bearing. Once they made their way past our guards, the man in blue signaled the carriage driver.
I stared, stricken, as the carriage rumbled through the gate and onto the street outside. There was no chance Piero could see me: The low sun created a blinding glare, and I could not see the windows of the carriage. Even so I waved, and watched as it headed north down the Via de’ Gori and disappeared.
At suppertime, Paola found me and shooed me to my room, where a plate of food awaited me. She also brought a talisman on a leather thong and hung it round my neck. I agreed to remain in my room in exchange for Ficino’s book, but before Paola could deliver it and leave, I pelted her with questions: What were the names of the two men at the gate? How long were they expected to stay?
She was overworked and exasperated, but I managed to tease from her the phrase “Niccolò Capponi, leader of the rebels, and his general, Bernardo Rinuccini.”
I obeyed her and kept to my room. After many hours of anxious reading, I fell asleep.
I woke to the sound of shouting and hurried to the main landing. In the foyer at the foot of the stairs, Passerini—in his scarlet cardinal’s gown trimmed with ermine, his ample jowls spilling over the too-tight neck—stood shouting, flanked by Ippolito and Sandro. The Cardinal had apparently drunk a good portion of wine.
“It’s an outrage!” he shrieked. “I am the regent, I alone possess the authority to make such decisions. And I denounce this one!” He stood inches from Aunt Clarice, who, accompanied by two men at arms, barred entry to the dining hall. “You insult us!”
He seized Clarice’s right wrist, wrenching it so violently that she cried out in surprise and pain.
“Worthless bastard!” she shouted. “Let go of me!”
On either side of her, the guards unsheathed their swords. Passerini dropped hold of her at once. The younger of the guards was ready to strike, but Clarice signaled for peace and caught Ippolito’s gaze.
“Get them from my sight,” she hissed.
Cradling her injured wrist, she turned and swept imperiously back into the dining hall. The door closed behind her, and the guards positioned themselves in front of it. The Cardinal lurched slightly, as if considering whether to charge the door, but Ippolito caught his arm.
“They’ve made the decision to deal with her,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do here. Come.” Still gripping